


administration

by vaultboii



Category: Cuphead (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Casino Royale, Eventual Romance, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mafia AU, Mic is the Devil's Left-Hand Man in this one, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Sexual Tension, everyone's part of the mafia in this one bois, i was inspired and inspiration creates this, i will fill this whole tag even if god Himself physically descends from heaven to stop me, watch out kiddos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2019-03-14 21:52:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13599120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaultboii/pseuds/vaultboii
Summary: No one expected the two Hands to fall in love with one another. Not even the men themselves.





	administration

**Author's Note:**

> anyways hello yes i am back with more casino royale, teas and crane supplied ideas about this mafia au and i just put it to paper. it's a bit rougher than intended but hey! i finished something lmao
> 
> anyway, here you go. 
> 
> mic belongs to circateas on tumblr! http://circateas.tumblr.com/ go follow their ass because it's beautiful

**administration** : the top-level "management" of an organized crime Family -- the boss, underboss and consigliere.

* * *

The first time he meets him, the stars are out.

“You must be Mic,” says the King’s voice; there’s a soft emphasis to his name, an afterbite of pressure on the word. Respect is audible - a respect he supposed was born from rumours and reputation. Supposed it came right from the Boss’s influence. Those quiet eyes glint, and he stops at their stare; the Boss called King looks him straight back and smiles with sparkling teeth.

“You must be _King,_ ” and he puts an emphasis on that title as well. King grins all the wider, and nods his head in acknowledgement.

(and it’s a great looking smile, a befitting one to the reputation the King carries.)

“I’ve heard some about you.” He says, and holds out his hand.

King eyes his hand, and that smile grows a little looser; a pause, and consideration jolts quickly through those quiet eyes. He doesn’t look entirely convinced. Perhaps it’s the open holster that has the Right-Hand Man on edge. Mic knows King’s gun is free on his hip too.

He waits.

And, finally, the glove reaches forward and takes his. It’s a strong grip. It’s a warm grip. It sets a nice little fire burning up his arm, and without meaning to, his gaze falls into those quiet eyes once more. They’re a vibrant green, he muses. _Cunning._

Two seconds, three seconds pass.

The die releases his hand, and sniggers. “I’ve heard some about you too,” the die says and, _hell,_ he can’t hold a smirk back from that.

Little did they both know those smiles were about to be the end of them.

 

(and King thinks, _oh,_ those eyes are _purple_.)

 

The next time Mic meets him, King’s at the annual meeting. He’s pressed and suited stripes; green flashes in his eyes hungrily as the die talks to the Big Man. There’s a habit of waving hands with the die when he has a point, Mic notices. He has a habit of speaking loudly too.

He also has a horrible habit of staring at him with wicked intrigue when Boss is talking, too.

“Pay attention,” growls the Big Man, and slaps the cane on the table – every Boss and soldier in the family goes stiff, and reflexively, the kid Cuphead gives a shudder. Words aim his way. “Mic. _Report._ ”

“Aye, Boss,” and he leans forward a bit, and plots that crimson-flecked Spade down on the table. Nothing could miss the gleam in King’s eyes. “Mango sends his regards.”

 

(and King thinks, _damn._ )

 

It’s Whiskey who reunites them unintentionally at his bar, and it’s an awkward silence that fills the room when King looks up to see Mic standing in the doorway. Gazes are exchanged, and he shifts on that stool; the piano-man plucks up a good-time crooner. Mangosteen looks at him, looks at Mic. Something seems to click, and the eight-ball gets up to leave with the old _lucky bastard_ eyes to him. He’s the only man at the end of the bar counter now.

(and he’ll peel Mango alive for that later, but that’s for another time –)

Mic opts to join him. It’s quiet for a few minutes.

“Good Cognac they serve here,” He says and downs a glass. The piano prattles on, all-knowing.

“That so?” The gun-holster is closed, King notices. His is not. He adjusts that, and suddenly Mic’s staring at him with such a look, such a smile that he feels embarrassed just at his gesture. Whiskey slides across another glass. Mic catches it with practiced ease, and continues talking. “I’m not much for Cognac.”

“Not one for chocolate, either.” He raises his glass, and indulges in those piercing eyes. Mic raises an eyebrow. “So I’ve heard.”

“Heard right.” _God,_ those lips are something.

He switches topics effortlessly. “Come here often?”

“Who’s asking?” There’s warmth in that smile now – a waltz has struck up, and he wonders if Whiskey would mind if he insisted on giving the piano-man a raise. Or shooting him. He’s undecided at this moment.

(and, _god,_ if those lips touched that glass one more time he was going to lean forward and just touch that bottom lip, the one that sat there so appetizing –)

“Ah, a bit o’ curiousity and that fellow at the end of the bar. Looks mighty interested.” He says, and curls a finger on his thigh.

One edge of Mic’s smile perks up.

             
(and when Mic finally leaves with that stupid smile still on his face, he turns around to strangle that piano-man just to see Wheezy slid off the ol' dusty stool.)

(“Mangosteen bet me,” the ol’ cigar says with a chuckle and leaves him there.)

 

The first time they have lunch together was unplanned on Mic’s part.

“I’m heading out,” King says one day after the monthly meeting ends, and his eyes lock straight onto Mic’s. Cocky, the eyebrow is subtly challenging him; just like how Mic knows that eyebrow perks up any time the die disagrees with topics presented at the table. It could be considered irking if it was anyone but King, he notes. On King, the look was almost dashing. “Headin’ to the new restaurant at the end o’ the Isles – anyone want to come?”

(and that smile is still as bright as the day he first saw it.)

“I’ll take you up on that,” and he stamps the bottle onto the table with a small clack – Mr. Wheezy looks up, and those yellow eyes gleam in knowledge. “You might get lost without a guiding Hand.”

Chuckles fill the table. Chips snorts, and covers it up with a sip of Scotch.

“Ah, Mic –” and the voice is almost fond. “Would I ever go anywhere without you?”

And both their hands twitch, just for that second, in a hope that one would reach out for the other.

                    

(and Mic thinks, _ah,_ his voice is perfect _._ )

 

The gun goes off with a crack. The soldier goes down.

King swears, and reloads.

He’s gunned down. A wise suicide run, he had to admit if he looked at it from the perspective of the other Family, but, kudos to them for it being a smart run at that. They’ve planned it out pretty well, the run n’ gun. Hell knew what would happen if Boss lost him. Hell knew what would happen if Boss lost Them.

(and he’d rather not think of Mic right now, not with that _thudda-thudda-thudda_ off in the distance.)

He’s propped up against the wall. Gunfire cackles in the distance; shots of Magnums, shots of rapid-fire as he hears Chips cuss out enough to fill a soap factory. No silence, which is good he thinks as he aims down his sights to the corner. He couldn’t bear to lose Chips at this time. Couldn’t bear to lose any of ‘em.

A fucker took out his leg. Lucky shot, the son of the bitch, and he’ll pay for that when he meets the Maker in Heaven six feet under, but it hurts like – well, it hurts like _hell._ There’s a body-count of three next to the corner, and by the sounds of it, a fourth showing up – but he’s running out of ammo at this rate, and some cock-sucking prick is going to get him soon.

A scuff of a shoe. His finger tightens on the trigger.

And he sees Mic.

“There you are,” and there’s almost relief in the tattered microphone’s voice; relief that is overshadowed by a _fuck_ -load of pissed. Mic scoops down, and presses a finger to his blood-soaked thigh.

His vision goes white, and he’s sure in the string of cussing he barks out, Mic gets the point to _not_ touch there. “The fuck you’ve been doing, eating bullets?”

“ _Fuck off_ ,” and he means that one, even as Mic takes him under the arm and lifts him up. The world swims. “Where the _fuck_ have you been?”

“Savin’ asses, that’s what.” They stay standing there for a few dangerous seconds; King sucks in breath, and tries a step. It’s not too bad. The gunfire in the distance helps motivate him along. “Boss needs ya.”

“Fuck,” and that’s hissed between teeth – he brings a shaky hand to the wall, and nearly falls over again. “ _God fu –”_

“Get up, idiot,” and King sees stars in those brilliant eyes; they’re still holding hands even as he’s up firing and limping along. Pain’s a bastard along his leg, but the look of Mic – bloodstained, and rough, breathing so hard as he hoists him along – well, that’s a good distraction. And those eyes find him again, and they’re worried. Oh, so worried.

“I can _walk_ ,” but he can’t really, and Mic knows it.                          

“ _Fucking_ walk, then.”

           

(and King thinks, _oh,_ his eyes are _violent_.)

 

There’s a white box on his desk when King limps into his office for the first time in two months. Innocently sitting there, really. He recognizes the writing on it before he makes it half-way across the office, and that tight feeling in his chest is there again when he finally reaches his chair and glares down at it. Untouched, it’s all done up simply with a purple ribbon and almost professionally scribbled writing over it tells him it’s ordered from that exact pastry shop King admits to losing about half his pay to weekly. He doesn’t have the faintest clue how it got in here.

(but he knows who it’s from.)

A hand reaches out, and removes ribbon. The box opens.

It’s _fucking_ Devil’s cake.

And Mangosteen had never heard the Right-Hand Man laugh so loudly.

           

(and if Mic notices later how the Right-Hand Man is wearing a ribbon of purple attached to his breast, he doesn’t say anything.)

 

And perhaps they start meeting more, Mic admits when he glances over at King laughing in the empty bar, green sparkling in his eyes and that smile so loose on his face. There’s no gun holster now, or rather, the only gun on them is the shotgun under the counter that Whiskey owns, and the two pistols sitting in front of them just in case. The King’s shoulders are relaxed, and his head is thrown back; bright, bubbling laughter is leaking out of the die as the man covers his face and guffaws. It’s beautiful, Mic realizes. He’s _beautiful_. 

(and perhaps his hand touches his King’s thigh, but none of them say anything about that.)

 

“You look good in purple,” says Mic as he readjusts in front of the tailor mirror; purple-tinted eyes are sliding over how that suit clutches to his chest, and admiring the way the collar fits around his neck. Those hands are in his pockets. King knows that it’s just to cover up how they shake. “Suits ya.”

“The colour of your eyes, huh? We'd better dress you up in green, then,” He snorts and unbuckles the front of his vest. Mic licks his lips, and says nothing as he pulls off the shirt, and tosses it to the tailor. He’s still talking as he puts on the next outfit, and those carnal eyes just keep on staring. “How’s this?”

“A trenchcoat might be more fitting.” Mic says, and his voice shakes a bit when King decides to pull on those gloves with a bit of help from his teeth. The tailor says nothing; he already knows King was going to buy all, anyways. “It’s missing, _ah,_ something.”

“Mmm. Never knew you had a thing for _those_.” He says, and enjoys how that blush just slowly embeds up Mic’s neck in the mirror.

 

And the Family knows; oh, god, how they know.

“Eyes on the prize,” Cuphead growls to him as he lines up the shot; but it’s Mic sitting there with such a casual look on his face as he spins the cane around in his fingers that’s distracting him.

(and the fucker’s wearing green, a green that just matches his eyes like the black trenchcoat he wears matches the purple tie.)

“They are on the prize,” he snaps back, refocuses and _fires._

(and if Mic wakes up sweating and gasping his King’s name, it’s never mentioned amongst the servants.)

 

And, finally, one day it happens out of the blue.

Well, not really out of the blue; it’s a crack-shot that prompts it. Some rival, King believes. It has to be. Both ways, the shot has them ducking – and Mic, _god,_ Mic responds so quickly with that pistol that their would-be assassinator barely has time to pry his finger off the trigger before falling face-first. Terror strikes him, but composure comes first; and there’s a cocky stirring in his gut, a proud feeling that swells in him as he races after the taller man to the shouts of frantic citizens.

Mic’s gun is still hot when they stop for air in the Family’s alley, and sirens wail in the distance. There’s a composed sort of release on the man’s face, and nebula in his eyes – King takes one glance and something else stirs in him at the sight of the man’s hardness, the way that tension is gone and adrenaline – the biggest drug, the best drug – seems to have spike in relief between them. The gun is returned to its holster.

(and it doesn’t help that the Left-Hand Man is wearing green, or he smells just so faintly of that cologne King loved – it doesn’t help that those lips are panting for air and he needs him so bad that it hurts –)

And those bloody eyes look up. A grin spreads wide across his face; a cocky smile, as if that man could hear his every thought and savored the taste of them. It’s smug, and radiates triumphant. Mic raises his hands in a shrugging gesture, and smirks at him.

“They always seem to miss, don’t they?” The man laughs, and King thinks – _fuck it._

He’s not sure how to describe the taste of Mic. It tastes of warmth and the fire of an engine – the sweetness of candy, and yet the sting of coffee. The aftertaste of smoke still clings faintly in his lips, a taste of fury and passion, and shock. It tastes of the bitterness of a well-done job, the furious patience of a working man, the demanding yet uncertain taste of Mic as the microphone freezes. He opens his eyes, and those gleaming eyes burn nuclear promise, bright purple in the dim light alleyway and midnight sky, staring so _caringly_ down at him that he nearly thinks that he’s kissing the wrong man, the wrong Hand but they’re so certain. They’re so piercing. They’re so _Mic._

(and Mic can’t believe that of all the times King kisses him, it’s here, and frankly? A part of him doesn’t give a damn.)

And they should stop. It’s midnight, and the sounds of Whiskey’s bar are right below them; anyone could walk out, anyone could see, anyone could pull the trigger and take both of them out like that. But King can’t care. He can’t seem to think of anything but how Mic presses finally against him, and how those lips just taste as fucking good as they looked. And how they respond – those lips are responding finally, oh _God,_ they’re responding so beautifully in the slow, snarky way Mic always has. They fit him so perfectly.

He’s needed this so bad.

(they’ve needed this so bad.)

And finally, King gets those hands right up Mic’s spine, just like he had been _fantasizing_ to do for so goddamn long. A breath hitches in the microphone’s chest, and suddenly there are hands on his hips rubbing desperately for contact. Mic’s leaning forward now; a part, a breath for air and they’re not stopping – _fuck no,_ stopping had long past his mind as the kiss grows sloppier, and the common knowledge that they’ve been waiting too long, gazing too long instead of _acting_ sprang up to fuel them further.

And why do those lips taste so familiar, so enticingly _familiar_ that he knows how the smirk feels under his lips? Mic pulls him closer, and hands travel up his back; he murmurs into the kiss and, _oh,_ there’s a hand against his chest now. It’s all too much, and all too little. He makes the mistake of looking up, and the sight is enough to destroy him; lips are parted for air, gasping in their pleasure. Eyes gleam hungrily.

He’s the one to lose sense now. The desire swarms and overtakes him; he’s prying that green collar open with his thumbs while Mic grabs his waist and tugs him closer. He _needs_ that neck. Needs to kiss that glistening skin, needs to _have_ that untainted skin that rises and falls with every breath the microphone takes. He needs this man and he tries to show that in every drawn-out kiss, every press against the collar-bone – and that blush starts to crawl up again, a pretty shade that is accompanied by more hitches of the man’s chest.

(and Mic leans his head back, and takes it because _God,_ those lips know exactly what they’re doing, and _God,_ how his chest just cries out for more, how the has his knees weak already.)

And fingers press down on something _perfect_ in King’s back.

 The die forgets how to speak. To move, even. Something wicked stirs in him, and he can’t choke back a groan from that. A consensus’ comes between them, a crashing realization; they need something that couldn’t be done out here, no matter how much the expanding heat in his chest begged him for it.

“ _Damn,_ ” he stutters and Mic laughs. It’s as light as every time before. It’s smug, and relaxed; and there’s relief in it too, a relief that both of them are thinking,

_(it’s mutual –)_

_–_ and Mic’s hand moves from thigh to slowly interlink with his.

 

(and when Mic sits on the edge of the bed this time, and watches him take that shirt off, the gleam in his eyes is almost ravenous. And King thinks, _oh,_ those eyes are _perfect.)_

(and Mic thinks, _oh,_ he’s perfect.)


End file.
